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Niedziela
16.03.2025nr 075 (7168 ) ISSN 1734-6827 Hyde Park Corner Temat: Preria (NOWY TEMAT) Autor: VCNC godzina: 03:34 Oczyma Waszej wyobrazni spojrzcie ... Przepiekna pofaldowana preriowa rownina, ciagnaca sie po horyzont, przeplatana laskami liscisciastymi, z przewaga debu amerykanskiego ... ktora juz za chwile wybuchnie razaca , swieza zielenia, po pierwszych wiosennych deszczach. Dzis jeszcze szara, rdzawa, zlota, slomiano - brazowa, z roznymi odcieniami tych kolorow, a mimo to oszalamiajaca swym pieknem kazdego, kto na nia spojrzy. Wysokie trawy prerii, falujace na lekkim cieplym wietrze, niosace zapach wysuszonych traw, csciolki debowych laskow .... I mala rzeczka, wijaca sie wstega po prerii, o obszarpanych brzegach, dobrej, tlustej ziemi, glinie, na ktorej widac tropy mieszkancow tej krainy. Gdy sie zatrzymasz, bedziesz uwaznie obserwowal, ujzysz na prerii zycie ... Jelenie genialnie zlewajace siez preria , kojoty podazajace wsrod tych traw, strzygace uszami, co kilkadziesiat metrow wstrzymujace swoj trucht, bacznie patrzace i lapiace gorny wiatr, pelen wiadomosci z otaczajacego ich Swiata, na rzece zas pojedyncze kaczki, ktore bacznie obserwuje szybujacy w gorze rdzawy jastrzab, wypatrujac w tym morzu traw, krolikow oraz roznych gryzoni. Jutro postaram sie zalaczyc zdjecia z tej prerii, jest to jak dobry serial, ktory mozna ogladac godzinami. Autor: VCNC godzina: 04:02 Preria, ktora byla szlakiem dla plemion indianskich, ludzi co zyli tu jeszcze 200 lat temu, czyli zaledwie ze dwa pokolenia. Znam ich historie, swiete miejsca, a takze miejsca bitew z milicja , wojskiem, wspoistniejaca z traperami oraz osadnikami, znam nazwy Indianskie miejsc, ktore mimo, ze Indian brak, zaskakuja trafnoscia okreslen. Szukalem poezji amerykanskiej o prerii, jej pieknie w ten sposob jak ja ja widze, nie znalazlem jednak by oddawali amerykanscy poeci to, co ja widze. Byc moze wynikalo to z czasu, gdy ta poezja powstawala, oddawala piekno, wiejskosc prerii, odglosy kopyt konskich, czy przerazajace gwaltowne zjawiska pogodowe na prerii. Jest jednak pewna piesn do melodii „Baby Mine”, autorstwa Charlesa H. Chamberlina, ktora czesciowo oddaje lagodnosc prerii, ktora kocham, a stala sie ona hymnem stanowym, choc ta forma prerii wystepuje w kilku graniczacych stanach, prerii innej, od tej bardziej na West, na ktorej stycznosc ziemi z niebem potrafi czesto wywolac przerazenie, William Cullen Bryant pisze: These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name— The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch, In airy undulations, far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, And motionless forever. —Motionless?— No—they are all unchained again. The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South! Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not—ye have played Among the palms of Mexico and vines Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide Into the calm Pacific—have ye fanned A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? Man hath no power in all this glorious work: The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage, planted them with island groves, And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor For this magnificent temple of the sky— With flowers whose glory and whose multitude Rival the constellations! The great heavens Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,— A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, Than that which bends above our eastern hills. As o’er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides The hollow beating of his footsteps seems A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here— The dead of other days?—and did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the rivers, or that rise In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has passed away, Built them;—a disciplined and populous race Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields Nourished their harvest, here their herds were fed, When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. All day this desert murmured with their toils, Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed In a forgotten language, and old tunes, From instruments of unremembered form, Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came— The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. The solitude of centuries untold Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone; All—save the piles of earth that hold their bones, The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods, The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay—till o’er the walls The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, And sat unscared and silent at their feast. Haply some solitary fugitive, Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Of desolation and of fear became Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. Man’s better nature triumphed then. Kind words Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose A bride among their maidens, and at length Seemed to forget—yet ne’er forgot—the wife Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Races of living things, glorious in strength, And perish, as the quickening breath of God Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too, Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds No longer by these streams, but far away, On waters whose blue surface ne’er gave back The white man’s face—among Missouri’s springs, And pools whose issues swell the Oregon— He rears his little Venice. In these plains The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues Beyond remotest smoke of hunter’s camp, Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake The earth with thundering steps—yet here I meet His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing multitude Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark brown furrows. All at once A fresher winds sweeps by, and breaks my dream, And I am in the wilderness alone. Autor: VCNC godzina: 04:21 W tym wszystkim nie chodzi o zabijanie, ale realne zycie, brutalne, ale piekne ...trzeba umiec poczuc sie czescia tego Swiata co ogladamy. To sa widoki, ktorych juz moze nasze dzieci nie doswiadcza. Termos z dobra kawa czy herbata, krzeselko, lornetka i ten dobry film trwa. Zabicie, konczy film, ale nie po to obcujemy z przyroda ladujac baterie, by w pierszych minutach filmu, zabic, skonczyc ogladanie, patroszyc, transportowac, wypic kielicha I wrocic do cywilizacji. Przyroda trzeba sie umiec delektowac, jak dobrym Scotchem, bo tylko wtedy zrozumiemy zycie, przyrode, a to odda nam, odwdzieczy sie zdrowiem, energia, pozytywnym oraz wywazonym spojrzeniem na cywilizacje, srodowisko naszego zycia. Autor: VCNC godzina: 04:30 Swego czasu bylem atakowany na forum przez hejterow, ktorzy uwazali sie za mysliwych, znawcow broni, o wszystkim i o wzystkich wiedzieli najlepiej. Pewnie tez macie takich wsrod waszych tzw.kolegow. Zaoytajcie ich o sztuke, kulinaria, literature, poezje o lowiectwie, myslistwie ... Wielokrotnie ujzycie ich prostactwo, ubustwo wnetrza. Jestem przekonany, ze zaden z nich zasiadajac na ambonie, otwierajajac okienka, nie czuje tego spektaklu, podniesionej kurtyny z przedstawienia przyrodniczego, nie potrafi sie wyciszyc tak by czuc tetno zycia. Sa to ludzie skupieni, by zabic, pochwalic sie zabiciem, bronia, ubraniem, autem, ale zaden z nich nie wysiedzialby 12h na ambonie, aby nacieszyc sie tylko przyroda. Prostactwo, zadufanie, buta, chamstwo I hejt, ktore musi miec widownie. Wiekszosc z nich nie jezdzi do lasu dla obcowania z przyroda, ale dla zabicia, kolezenstwa, szpanu, bixnesu imprezy ... czasem miesa. Autor: VCNC godzina: 04:50 Czy znacie stoicyzm? https://youtu.be/hEXoUMoSFP8?si=IQYWRujUUDbo_tbH Autor: VCNC godzina: 04:52 Polecam...posluchajcie: https://youtu.be/AY_g4ZTAmKs?si=EiALJoh8fdZxsbWQ https://www.youtube.com/live/hZGTwaV-u4A?si=kh_iYzsD_oCg7K20 |
